Linked

Six : Go

How do you reach something when you have no proof it even exists? I'm shoving a few clothes into an old backpack, reminding myself to pack light, as Corin suggested, placing my faith in a mere rumour. I must be crazy. Well, some would say I am. There's a light knocking at my door.

"Just a minute," I call, dropping the bag and kicking it so it slides across the smooth lacquered flooring, swallowed up beneath the bed. "Come in." I grab my hairbrush, spiderwebbed with silvery threads of hair. As Mrs Plum enters, I begin to brush as though I was already doing so. I've dressed all in black today, something she shouldn't remark upon as she noticed my low mood last night and slipped a few extra marshmallows into my bedtime hot chocolate. My darkly coloured snow jacket and thick jeans should keep me warm enough if I am outdoors a while.

"Good morning, Benna," she says. "I see you're feeling well enough to make yourself presentable." She is already dressed and made-up, too, her pale pink lipstick matching her long loose skirt, paired with a mohair sweater in mint. Mrs Plum always looks so soft and lovely. I will miss her. I can't let it show, though.

I shrug, placing the hairbrush back on the chest of drawers. "Actually, I was still kind of hoping for the day off school. Things might be awkward there... with Jesse, you know. Maybe I'll go for a walk, get some fresh air."

"Unfortunately for you, I don't think your father would allow it. Everybody must suffer Mondays." She places an airtight container beside the hairbrush. "As requested, breakfast."

"Why the container?" Usually when I wish to eat in my room, the food is delivered open and steaming on a warmth tray. Quickly my fingers weave one long plait that streams down my shoulder, dangling just above my navel. Jesse loved playing with my hair when it was plaited, running his fingertips along the soft shiny ridges. I push the memory out. I need to focus on other things now. There's no time to grieve the relationship I messed up.

Mrs Plum smiles, although her amber eyes don't light up the way they usually do.

"I had a feeling you might be wanting some fresh air. Thought you may want to save some food for later." She reaches out to touch my arm. The backs of her hands are dotted with liver spots. "You know, in case you aren't back in time for lunch." I don't move an inch beneath her fingers. An odd squirmy feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me something is up.

"Thank you," I say slowly. "So, I do have the day off?" My words inch out, testing, as if hatching from an egg. Mrs Plum removes her hand from my shirtsleeve to smooth her sweater, an habitual movement she makes when wearing her apron. She glances over a shoulder before speaking, observing the deserted corridor outside my room. I tie off the plait with an elastic and wait.

"Not technically, no," she says. "But if you leave now, you may make it out the gates before the car is ready for you."

We stand in silence for a moment, regarding each other. I can't quite fathom what is happening. I think Mrs Plum is encouraging me, no, telling me, to leave. But why? What does she know?

"What's going -" I start to ask, but she cuts me off with a quick shake of her head. Her grey curls bounce around her face, her forehead deeply creased.

"I would go now if you wish for a walk."

"But -"

"Your mother used to like going for early morning walks, too."

"She did?" I am never sure whether to feel pleased or annoyed when someone knows a facet of my mother that I don't. It's as though the memory of her belongs to me, and no one else has the right to add or take away from it, or to point out inaccuracies. At the same time, the more I hear about her, the more I think we are building her back up, piece by piece, until she is complete enough to walk in the door.

"She did." Mrs Plum nods, raising a pointed finger to indicate my wind chime. "Where do you think she got the inspiration for that?"

The chrome trees hover above my bed, a frozen forest. Behind those metal trees lies a sweeping view of ice-tipped lawns and a kidney shaped pond, solid as a pane of glass. My mother once told me that when people still had celebrations, like Christmas, they used to string up lanterns and coloured lights and put bladed shoes on their feet to skate on the ice. It sounded wonderful, and sort of dangerous. Perhaps that was the wonder. That people used to embrace dangerous things. 

I stride over and push my thumb against the glass of the window, activating the auto-opaque feature, and the gardens immediately disappear from view. 

"I guess I've never thought about it,"

"That's probably a good thing. Thought can prove risky at times, my love." She exhales loudly. "Anyway, off you go. Good luck."

I frown. "Luck for what?"

"For your walk... your quest for fresh air," she says, as she slips back out the door. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"Um, thanks," I reply, still rooted to the spot. The door slides shut behind her. As soon as her footsteps have disappeared, I scramble under the bed, yanking out the bag by its worn fabric straps. In it, I shove the hairbrush and container of food, and then stand in the doorway, hand resting lightly over the scanner. I take one last look at my room before I leave. Partly to double check there is nothing I need left behind, but also to say goodbye. Maybe it's silly, but these four walls are where I've laid my head every night of my life. This bed, with its soft pillow and white cotton cover, has always been my bed. It's moulded to my body, hugging me in the right places as I drift into oblivion each night. It's where my mother used to perch beside me and tell bedtime stories, tales of adventures I thought I'd never have myself. My eyes flick to the wind chime. Technically, it's not something necessary or useful. Corin said to pack light. But it's the last remnant of my mother, so it's coming with me. I cross the room, climb onto the bed, and reach. It's hanging high, but I can grasp the lower trees. I yank, hard, hoping the hook attaching the chime to the ceiling comes free. It doesn't. The thin metal tree I am holding breaks off instead. The rest of the silver forest collides noisily, upset.

"Sorry," I say to the empty room. I turn the tree over in my hands. The tips of the branches taper into sharp points, almost like a clawed hand. Well, the wind chime is broken now, but at least I have a part of it. Better than nothing. I shove it into the backpack and swing it over my shoulders. Time to go.